“He’s been working on this particular exhibit for twenty years.”
“I just like his paintings.”
She gave him a patronizing smile. “He’s a photographer.”
He tucked his hands into his front jeans pockets. “I meant his pictures.”
Of course he’d be uneducated. Just like…She swallowed. “Then you’ll undoubtedly enjoy this display of his work.”
As they turned the corner to the exhibit, he paused in front of the first work. “Now, how the heck did he get a photograph of Napoleon Bonaparte?”
Maybe she could just bury him in artspeak before he could broach the subject he surely came to discuss. “Hiroshi Sugimoto’s work rekindles the dialogue that has existed between painting and photography ever since the invention of the camera.”
He glanced at her with a questioning look as they moved to a picture of Henry VIII and she continued the spiel. “He isolated wax effigies from the staged vignettes in waxworks museums and photographed them in haunting illuminations, creating Rembrandtesque portraits.”
He ran a hand over his jaw and nodded. “So he took black-and-white pictures of famous people in Madame Toussaud’s and reprinted them.”
Basically, yes. “It’s a little more complicated than that. He traced all the figures back to the paintings on which most of them are based.” She nodded toward the image. “Notice the gemstones on the king’s robe are reminiscent of Hans Holbein’s most famous portrait of the king.”
“Yeah.” He squinted at Henry. “I noticed that.”
If she hadn’t been so bewildered at his unexpected appearance, she might have laughed.
Celeste moved to the next piece, her favorite. In it, Anne Boleyn played a six-string lute. The artist had captured the sense of inevitable doom and surrender in the young woman’s expression. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She sure is.” The faint southern tone in his voice played in her ears. Slowly, she turned to see him examining her with the same intensity she’d been giving to Henry’s bride.
This game had to end. She felt her pulse speed up and nearly lost herself in the depths of his eyes. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Lansing?”
Go ahead, mister. Say what you came to say. Because she would deny, deny, deny. Then run.
Chapter Two
Beau mentally reviewed his strategies. Plan A: Charm her. Plan B: Shame her. Plan C: Kidnap her.
He was obviously about to hit the wall on Plan A.
The temptation to blurt out the truth had rolled through him since he’d seen her shaking out her golden hair in the lobby. But in Beau’s world, timing was everything.
Judging by her reaction when she first saw him, his news would be no shocking revelation. A blind man could see his appearance had upset her.
“I don’t want anything, ma’am,” he lied in answer to her pointed question, letting his boyhood Virginia drawl slip in a bit more. “Just lookin’ to add a little urban sophistication to my life.”
He had no doubt he’d found the girl he wanted. One look into those emerald eyes and he was sure. And her hair, honey-colored, thick and wavy, gave him the first real hope he had in days. But the elegant nose, the slender neck, the refined cheekbones were a surprise to him. He hadn’t expected a beauty. He hadn’t anticipated the royal posture or that rich-girl ability to keep her jaw parallel to the ground at all times.
Her expensive musky perfume made him want to lean closer, smell more. Made him wish he had more than an hour or two to get what he wanted out of her.
“Truth be told, ma’am, a friend of mine suggested I look you up.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Really? Who was that?”
She had to know what was coming next. “Travis Chastaine.”
Her creamy complexion paled as she lifted her chin and gave her head a negative shake. “I don’t remember meeting anyone by that name.”
“He’s my boss.” Beau tapped the logo on his chest. “He owns Chastaine Motorsports, the team I drive for.”
A thousand goose bumps rose on her arms. “I don’t follow racing, Mr. Lansing.”
His gaze dropped over her and stopped on the ugly brown stain on her otherwise impeccable outfit. Suddenly he remembered the crash in the coffee shop. Of course—she’d had an advantage. She’d seen him first. He should have known her in the coffee shop. He should have recognized the eyes.
“I think the waitress let you in on the truth.”
She dropped a hand to her pants, a huge diamond flashing on her finger. He knew she’d gotten engaged. But it had been more than two years ago, and he’d never seen